“He shouldn’t have replied. I shouldn’t have fought back.” Releasing a bitter laugh, I link my arms around my bent legs and lower my chin onto my right knee. “It was a battle of the wills from the start with words that felt like weapons. I wanted to hurt him for having hurt us, and I was so blinded by pain that I couldn’t even see that he’d done nothing at all. But there I was, coming back again and again for more, because somewhere in all the mess, he offered something dark and twisted that felt like it had the power to drown me, if I let it.” If I let him.

I think of his hand on my throat.

Without thinking, I trace a small, lazy circle over my pulse at the base of my neck.

It doesn’t feel the same.

Nor does he look the same. His jaw is clean-shaven, unlike before, and his hair is dark and unruly instead of blond and trimmed neatly against his skull. For almost two years now, I’ve carried with me the memory of him standing on my father’s doorstep, FBI badge flipping open to show his credentials when he asked to speak with Dad.

Reid Paxton is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

That hasn’t changed.

Stassi reaches for her coffee. “Is this guy married?”

“No.”

“Is he sitting behind bars and looking for a get out of jail free card?”

Throat tight, I shake my head.

“Then I don’t see the problem. You like him? Go for it. Does it really matter how it all started if he’s got you flustered like a—”

“It’s Reid Paxton,” I manage thickly, unable to meet her gaze and witness the judgment sure to be waiting for me there. “The FBI agent who was in charge of Dad’s arraignment.”

The temperature in the room drops by several degrees.

“I hated him.” The admission escapes me, hot and angry. “You have to believe me. I wouldn’t . . . There’s no way that I would ever—” Want him.

Except that I did, didn’t I?

I fell into his arms and didn’t even shove him away when recognition finally struck just before I came all over his fingers. All my life, I’ve always been in control. I do the right thing and never step out of line. And yet, for eighteen months, one week, and five long days, stone-cold Laela Donna has taken a back seat for a woman who feels too much, all at once.

Panic pricks my lungs, and I hear myself breathe, “I hate him, Stass. I promise that I do.” Her silence speaks louder than words ever could.